A blank and boisterous holiday, to be here, meaningless, holding cups of rain, smiling,
Here the grass and the summer wind,
To be sure I leaped, made cheer of the infinite sort,
Than swept the floor to shoo away the irony,

Cloud weight on uncertain afternoons, a tornado to tie its shoes, one barber employed to trim the oceans,

Let it be brief in the end like losing sight of an insect in a meadow

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